


Eames' Wedding Date

by zoodlino



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Escort Service, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Wedding Fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2019-08-02 01:26:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16295651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zoodlino/pseuds/zoodlino
Summary: Eames can't quite stomach the prospect of seeing his ex-fiancé at his sister's upcoming glitzy wedding in London. So he does the only rational thing and hires a professional wedding escort...who goes by the name of Arthur.Inception AU loosely based on The Wedding Date (2005)





	1. Prologue

“Ta, this is Eames. Leave me a line and I’ll call you back. Or not, I can’t be terribly bothered.”

“Hello Eames. This is Arthur. Sorry I didn’t get back to you last night, I got caught up taking notes on your message. Messages. All seven of them. I don’t know you yet, Eames, but stop worrying. Your ex-fiancé will wish he never left you and your family will think we’re in love. Trust me, I’m good at what I do. I’ll see you at the airport." 


	2. The Bad Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This fic was actually only meant to be a one-shot but now I'm knee-deep in chapter planning so what the hell..

Eames really, truly, has no right to be this nervous. After all, he’s not the unlucky sod getting hitched by the end of the week.

Weddings, at best, are a steady source of booze for the evening.

And maybe an opportunity to practice his newest acting personas on an unsuspecting public.

In fact, some of his favorite characters have emerged from impromptu wedding conversations. There is just something about the suits and the champagne and the bouquets that tempts Eames to tell the most outlandish tales, just to see what he can get away with. So far? A lot, including that harebrained story about the rabbi and the priest up in Aberdeen.  

Weddings, at worst, are tedious, repetitive, and home to entire hosts of heterosexual relatives.

Eames hasn’t really looked back since fleeing the stuffy enclave of his Londoner family in favor of carving out a spot of his own in the world.

In Eames’ experience, even New York’s skeeviest dive bar (of which Eames has quite a few favorites) makes for much better scenery than the posh upholstered interiors his family prefers… even if this has meant taking a day job behind the desk of Virgin Atlantic Airways to pay his frankly exorbitant bills. The benefits are good, and no one works the customer hotline quite like Eames.

Today, however, Eames is not meant to be working, despite the pleas of his co-workers to help out with the usual headaches of the day: three delays and two reps calling in sick - Yusuf knows a lot about the value of a cleverly forged doctor’s note for when Eames isn’t there to field his calls.

Having successfully dodged his remaining colleagues, Eames is now about to board the 8:15 flight to Heathrow.

More specifically, he is about to meet one very specific Virgin Atlantic passenger: his very much professional, hired wedding escort, Arthur.

And hell, for what Eames is paying him, he had better be gorgeous enough to make Robert seethe.


	3. All That And a Bag of Peanuts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At this point I feel the need to point out that I am not a Virgin Atlantic brand ambassador, I'm just going with the movie on this one. Oops. I'm having so much fun with this fic though.

The one major perk of working for an airline? Business class travel, courtesy of Virgin Atlantic. That, and inside knowledge of exactly where the champagne gets poured.

En route to his seat, Eames makes direct use of this hard-won knowledge by tracking down the flight attendant on duty: Nash, a man whose receding hairline makes him appear older than he actually is.

While the two have had their creative differences in the past, Eames is extremely grateful for his presence today. Or, to be more specific, for the champagne flutes Nash is carrying, one of which Eames eagerly claws toward his chest.

Nash raises an eyebrow. “Difficult day?”

“The worst,” Eames wants to snark back.

Unfortunately, trying to speak mid-champagne gulp does not work out for Eames, who inhales half of his beverage through his nose. When he is done voraciously coughing up what feels like half a lung and a formidable amount of phlegm, half of business class is staring at him. 

Nash gingerly tears the champagne flute from his grasp, not breaking face. “You’re really nervous about this wedding, huh?”

Eames, still hung up on the champagne’s side flavor of asphyxiation, gives a tight-lipped smile. “My sister’s getting married and the best man is my ex. I just want to know where all the emergency exits are.”  

In an attempt to recapture his runaway dignity, Eames gets settled in his seat, 3A, tugging a bit on his red-purple paisley shirt. Maybe this wasn’t the perfect day to pair it with powder blue slacks? Oh, hell, for six grand, Arthur better not be a fashion critic.

Eames fidgets, fighting the urge to bury his face in his hands. What had he been thinking, hiring a date for Nancy’s wedding? They would all figure it out within seconds, and have a good old laugh on him, as per usual.

Nash, meanwhile, has circled back to Eames’ side.

Eames groans. “Please, tell me passenger 3B just boarded and is an utter dreamboat. I’m talking absolutely, entirely, devastatingly -”

Eames is cut off by Nash’s low whistle. “Hello 3B.”

Everything about the man swiftly approaching seat 3B screams meticulous: from the broad lines of his shoulders in his no-nonsense black suit (Armani, Eames’ brain yells nonsensically) to his sleek gray suitcase, which he deftly stores in the overhead compartment in less time than it takes Eames to collect his jaw from the floor.  

Arthur, occupational Lothario, part-time Armani model and Eames’ arm-candy for the upcoming nuptials, wastes no time locating Eames in all his splotchy paisley glory.

To his credit, Arthur doesn’t waver; he simply meets Eames’ slightly crazed glance and swoops in to place a lingering kiss on Eames’ cheek. “Eames. Hello.”

_Holy hell._


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This bit was not fun to write but I think that's on my stomach flu more than anything..lets goo

Eames has had quite the day already. It is not even 9AM, which is an unholy hour to be awake at, let alone the whole motor skills bit.

It has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he is just the _teeniest_ bit starstruck. Not at all. With all the lies Eames will have to tell himself to get through this wedding, there's no reason not to start on the self-denial here and now. 

Arthur clears his throat, a light smirk playing on his lips. He expertly snags two fresh champagne flutes from a passing Nash, and offers one to Eames.

Their hands brush ever so slightly in the exchange, and Eames feels like a goddamn heroine in a Victorian novel. He is going to need so much more alcohol to deal with all of this.

“Glad you found it okay. The airport. The plane, I mean.” Eames cringes even as the words leave his mouth.

“I’m sorry we couldn’t leave sooner. I had a few loose ends to tie up.“ Arthur tips his long-stemmed glass to his lips, and no, Eames is _absolutely_ not staring at the column of Arthur’s throat as he swallows.

“You must be booked solid.” Eames swears he can hear the lady in 4A giggle a little. Jesus. This escort business was truly a terrible idea.

Eames is saved by the proverbial bell of airplane travel: the pilot’s announcement that they have been cleared for takeoff.

He sinks into his seat, thanking his personal gods (mainly Dionysus) that business class seating accommodations are so wide that 3A and 3B are behind, rather than next to each other. He’s not sure he could survive this encounter in coach.

Eames ponders if Arthur has finished off his champagne, or if Eames can sneak another glance at him. Do escorts have classes on how to make sipping a drink look extra appealing?

Eames is feeling increasingly foolish. He’s already put his foot in his mouth, so what the hell. Arthur will see worse of him in the following days, he ought to make sure the man is properly informed.

“I should warn you. You know those families where everyone’s out of their mind but they’re your family so you love them? Mine’s not like that.”

Arthur’s smiles broadly at this declaration, and oh, If this man doesn’t manage to make Robert jealous, no one will. Eames is half in love himself, and he's paying Arthur for his services. 

“Bottoms up, pet. We’re going to need all the luck we can get.” The last of the champagne goes right to Eames’ head, bright and fruity.   

“I’m certain, Mr. Eames, that we can aim a little higher than that.” On that note, Arthur disappears behind the front page of the New York Times, leaving Eames to ponder his curious fortune.

Well. Maybe Eames ought to dream a little bigger, after all.


	5. (Tim Gunn voice) Make It Work!

"Oh bloody mittens. Arthur, tell me you're not wearing that tonight."

Eames has been on edge ever since getting off the plane, and despite Arthur's all-around flawless physique, Eames has a slight issue with what exactly his date has changed into. 

Namely, a steel gray suit with a soft lilac tie that just happpens to go tone in tone with Eames' second favorite most horrible shirt.

Arthur's brow furrows. "You made no closer specifications of clothing in your instructions. " 

Eames sighs in the face of this oncoming doom. "Don't get me wrong - matching's fine. It's matchy-matchy you wanna look out for. We look like we're trying too hard." 

Arthur, bless his soul, looks like he already regrets taking on this specific venture. 

"Don't worry pet. Luckily I've brought more than one dashing ensemble. If you'd wait just wait one sec."

Arthur arches an eyebrow at the endearment, but lets it slide.

Eames is probably well on his way to becoming the anecdote Arthur tells his future clients to break the ice. Well, bollocks, so be it. Eames refuses to show up in his and his outfits. 

\- - - - - - - -- - -- - -- - - - - -- - 

Newly robed in a vibrant mustard dress shirt, Eames is beginning to regret his decision to go to this stupid wedding in the first place. He fidgets in the cab seat, nervously clasping his hands together.

Arthur smirks a little. "Don't worry Eames. You're a beautiful man and you've got everything in the world going for you." 

"Okay, but are are we talking 'nice shirt' or 'I was crazy to let you go'?" Eames is fretting, a characteristic that tends to increase with proximity to family grounds.

"Well I'd shag ya," the cabbie suddenly offers. "If that's alright with you of course," he hastens to edit for Arthur's sake.  

Arthur's hand comes up to his forehead, making it hard to tell if he is amused or simply exasperated.

Eames, however, feels slightly comforted, and settles a little straighter in his seat. "Right, let's get our story settled. You're a business man, we just started dating, and you're crazy about me."

Arthur instantly returns to his professional demeanor. "That's fine with me. I'll cover expenses, but if you want to get intimate, we talk money first." 

"That won't be a problem. I'm put out enough already by your asking fee as is. Sorry. No offense." 

A smile ghosts across Arthur's lips. "Eames, do me a favor, quit apologizing. This is, after all, first and foremost a business transaction."

Eames nods, a little flummoxed, but ultimately reassured by Arthur's steadfastness. Lord knows he'll need it around his English relatives.

Eames steels himself as the cab pulls up to the locale.

"Alright, pet. Showtime."

\- - - - - - - -- - -- - -- - - - - -- - 

 

 


	6. (You Can Have) Whatever You Like

If it weren't for Arthur's firm hand at the small of his back, Eames is sure he would simply collapse on the spot, or do something equally emblematic of an old-timey movie heroine.

Or perhaps Eames has a severe allergy to gold lamé decor that has remained undetected until now. 

"Breathe in. Breathe out. Don't worry, I've got you." Arthur almost seems genuinely concerned for Eames' well-being, which feels good despite the monetary inducement Eames is offering for the service. Maybe in another life, they meet at the bar of a swanky hotel after a couple of glasses of wine and-

Well, never mind, it really doesn’t apply.

The club is grand and glitzy, with polished surfaces all around and a whole fleet of waiters and waitresses plying the guests with liquor and small, funny-shaped entrées.

"Reginald!" 

Eames cringes hard, trying very much to last minute steer Arthur out of harm’s way, to some place nicer, perhaps the coat closet –

"Reginald!"

Arthur‘s face has taken on the most shit-eating grin.

"Reginald, what happened to you? Pull over for a quickie?" The woman behind this rather vivacious beckoning is shaped a little bit like a soufflé, and is definitely not on her first glass of sherry.

"Mum, this is not the time to be yourself," Eames hisses, mortified.  

Arthur steps in, looking perfectly pristine as he runs interference. "Hello, I’m the boyfriend. It’s lovely to meet you."

Helen is not impressed. "Yes yes love. Anyways, Reginald, this is a marathon, not a sprint. We’ve got welcome cocktails today and then tomorrow’s Young People in the Park and Stags and Hens. Friday’s the picnic, then the rehearsal dinner and since you’ve foolishly left no margin for jetlag, I need you to hydrate."

Eames distinctly feels like a teenager again, and dearly longs for the comfort of his cozy New York apartment and the ability to be miserable without an audience.

"Reg! I’m getting married! Oh Reg, I’ve missed you so – gosh, who’s the hunky, huh? Nice!"

Nancy is her usual fluttery self, gowned in a soft blue cocktail dress and clearly more than a little intoxicated.

"Nancy, Helen, let them breathe for goodness‘ sake."

Eames always has been grateful for Jeff, even if the poor sucker somehow ended up marrying his mum. That said, Jeff’s side business of forging IDs certainly made up for Eames‘ mother's parental shortcomings.

Jeff clears his throat, the sound of a man who knows the exact cost of the glittery circus surrounding him. "At times like these, I find a good, stiff drink helps."

Arthur, ever attentive, immediately offers to fetch refills.

Jeff side-eyes Eames. "How kind. Where did you find this one?"

"Oh, you know. Yellow Pages."

"Hello!" The microphone crackles and emits a long, shrill screeching sound.

"Wonderful! It’s finally working. Does everybody have a drink? Because I am going to say a few words." Helen sways on the spot, betraying little that her reddened cheeks haven't already said.

Thankfully, Arthur has indeed returned with drinks. Eames doesn’t bother to question what exactly Arthur has procured and instead downs the clear liquid in one long, extended gulp. For a second he could swear he sees Arthur’s cheeks dimple ever so slightly. Lord knows Eames would be calm as well if he didn’t share a gene pool with the present menagerie.

Helen lets out a short giggle, mouth close to the microphone, producing more static. "Ahem. Anyways, Jeff and I are so happy that you’re here to celebrate with us as we welcome Edward and the Fletcher-Wootons into our family. We always thought that we would marry off Reginald first, of course, we came pretty close once, but as you all know, that crashed and burned. Luckily, we were able to get the deposit back, so-"

_Clang!_

From the back of the room, someone has decided to interrupt Eames‘ suffering with a smattering of piano notes, and that someone -

Oh no. Eames‘ heart flip-flops in his chest.

_Robert._

**Author's Note:**

> No copyright infringement intended. I just want to rewrite all shmoozy rom-coms for Arthur and Eames.


End file.
